by RobCharters
'Do you have the list of the expenses needed?'
'It's right here,' said Aziz, handing him a folder. 'What is the target date?'
'On the 31st of August, a North Korean limited nuclear missile will hit a strategic point in Tokyo. I strongly suggest that all the operatives have someone logged on to Reuters news service. As soon as Reuters breaks the story of Tokyo being nuked, which they will surely do, that's the sign for the final phase of Operation Nostradamus to begin. All the attacks will happen within a day or two of the nuclear strike. But, if the strike doesn't happen, if the missile fails to go off, or fails to hit a strategic target, or if news of it simply doesn't appear on Routers within the 24 hour period of the 31st of August, GMT, then abort the attack. I repeat: abort the attack.'
'Why can't the attack carry on even if the missile is a dud?'
'Because then all your energy will have been wasted,' Joseph explained. 'We do have a back up plan if this one fails, so we would need to save our resources for that. To be sure, the terrorist attack all by itself, will damage American morale, and even drive their economy into a recession, but other than that, it will only anger the whole U.S. population. But if timed correctly, it will do so much more. Not only will a nuclear warhead hitting Tokyo start a war which would necessarily involve U.S. and North Korea, but secondly, it's the signal for Iraq to re-invade Kuwait, thirdly, for Yugoslavia to escalate the crises in Kosovo (where your allies will fight back bravely with weapons supplied by your elder brother), and of course, for your men to attack the Americans where it hurts most, just when they are launching their counter attack on North Korea, and contemplating an attack on Iraq.
'Now, in addition to that,' Joseph went on, 'the way things are in China, there's a good possibility that the more military minded factions may seize on the opportunity to force an invasion of Taiwan. That will probably happen within weeks following the initial four attacks, while the rest of the world is already busy at war. Also, Dr. Stanovitch has old friends in Russia who would very much like to see the Soviet empire revive, but in a different form, one more friendly to Islam. Possibly even as an Islamic republic, if some of the old generals have their way. Russia and China will, we hope, join the sides of North Korea and Iraq. Besides that, with the financial hub of Japan wiped out, that will put a tremendous strain on the world economies where the Japanese have invested, as the Yen will suddenly be worthless.
'That,' concluded Joseph, 'is what we have to gain, so if the nuclear strike doesn't materialise, we have "plan B". Everything would be the same as for Operation Nostradamus, except that it would be timed about three months later, with a different, though perhaps even more devastating launch signal. That will be code named, "Operation Christmas Lights".'
'This is the war we've been waiting for,' said Aziz.
'The war we've been waiting for,' repeated Joseph. 'So is this the list of expenses you'll need?'
'Yes.'
'I'll have this amount deposited into your account, the one you opened under the name of "Andrew Gustaffson", so you can disperse the funds accordingly,' said Joseph.
'Thank you very much, Mr. Gilderman.'
There was a knock at the door. It was the porter with a trolly with coffee and sweets.
'So,' said Aziz, once they were alone again, 'North Korea will initiate the mother of wars on the 31st...'
'No. Actually North Korea isn't a willing partner. They have too much to gain from their talks with South Korea. What will happen will be completely by accident, but once it happens, to save face, they will be forced to take the next step and probably invade the South just to pre-empt a retaliatory attack by the U.S. forces there. There just won't be enough time for them to explain, let alone prove, that it was an accident.'
'Ah hah!' exclaimed Aziz. 'Very clever! Okay, I'll make flight reservations for all my men for the first of September, and we hit them just as they're moving more troops to Korea.'
'That's the idea,' said Joseph.
He sat back and began to sip the coffee.
'Now, there's another matter I wanted to ask you about,' Joseph began again. 'The couriers who took the instructions to your people in New York for the operation that had to be aborted -- was it "Operation Pig Slaughter"?'
'Ah, yes...' Aziz began to give him the goods on Ernie, May Lin and Ibrahim.
* * *
Arriving at Incheon airport, they asked the taxi driver to take them to the nearest hotel. What the driver understood them to say, they could only guess, as Ernie counted at least three hotels before they finally arrived at one of the driver's choosing.
Regardless, they ordered two rooms, settled in, and refreshed themselves.
There was no time for sight seeing, nor otherwise enjoying the uniqueness of South Korea, apart from the necessary meals.
May Lin joined the three men in their room. The moment one of them voiced the question of where to begin, the crystal in May Lin's purse began to hum.
May Lin took it out and put it on.
Phondesh and Draz, go together to Musudan-ri launch site, Hwadae county, North Hamgyong Province, the colours said. Vectors were also given so the Zondon could pinpoint the location exactly.
From their hotel room, Ernie and Les were able to send themselves speeding across the 49th parallel and on through the expanse of North Korea in the same way Ernie had once visited Dr. Stanovitch.
At first, they went stealthily to avoid detection. Ernie knew Stanovitch would never be caught off guard again, ever since that day at the Dusit.
Soon, they realised that he wasn't in the country, so stealth probabally wasn't necessary. But then, they realised that the one who was there, like Les and others, had been trained in personal power techniques, so they still needed to be careful.
They listened in on his conversations with a group of local military personnel as they toured the interior of the silo where the TD1 rocket was ready to be launched. They heard them discuss and plan to come back 24 hours before launch and set the guidance vectors located in the nose of the rocket.
Thus, Phondesh and Draz knew to come back. That, they did, noon the next day. The warhead was armed, the vectors set for central Tokyo and a timer was adjusted for a launch time of 12:07 p.m., 31st of August.
Unfortunately, just knowing it was all they could do from there. As the settings were made using the analogue method they could only be changed by manually turning dials. Re-arranging electrical impulses wouldn't work. To manipulate moving parts would require a dyni beam. That would be impossible from a bodiless energy field, which was all they were right now. Seoul was too far away to project a dyni beam with any accuracy.
'If only these rogue states were a bit more-high tech, a nuclear catastrophe could be averted,' said Les when they had returned.
'We just have to get up close to the missile itself,' said Ernie. 'But we've only got one day to do it!'
'Ay-yo!' said May Lin.
Chapter 43
Gil Durant hadn't been able to sleep for two whole nights since hearing Les say that Stanovitch also supported the Zionist cause in addition to Nazi, IRA and the Prods. He just had to see his brother -- anything to prove it wasn't so.
He still had the slip of paper with the rabbi's address on it. It had been torn to pieces and then cello-taped back together again. It had also been thrown into the dustbin, only to be dug out again frantically with rubbish flying all over the kitchen. Finally, lest anyone should find his dead body in some back street with a Jew's name and address on his person, he wrote over the top of it in red ink: 'For liquidation,' along with a few swastikas. Then, he put it under a fold of his wallet where only he could find it.
Now, he did the unthinkable. He went clear across town, just to make absolutely sure no one would recognise him, and bought a ticket to Tel Aviv.
Even though he couldn't afford it, he got a seat in business class. It would be worth it if only to avoid sitting with the scum of humanity that some wanker hig
h up in the Zionist controlled world had decided to give free reign to travel just wherever they pleased.
So, he sat in the departure lounge and watched the Goons, the Pakkies, the Niggers, the Arabs, the Chinks, all thinking they were big stuff with their freedom and the means to go places. Then, he finally boarded, found his seat, and realised his big mistake.
Why hadn't he thought of it? What would the business class of any flight destined for Israel be full of, but Jews! Fat, rich international Jews!
So he spent the whole flight sitting next to something worse than the scum back in economy class -- a Jewish businessman.
But he managed. He ate his food, he sat and pretended he was alone, but he still didn't get any sleep.
Landing in Tel Aviv, he immediately boarded a coach to Jerusalem. That again, was full of every sort of humanity -- everything but Aryan. There was a heated discussion going on between some of the passengers, especially those sitting in the seats in front of Gil, and across the aisle.
A young man sitting next to him seemed to be of university age -- whether he was a student wasn't as obvious. He had blond hair, blue eyes and his nose showed no trace of Jewishness. When he turned and asked Gil in English where he was from, Gil felt safe answering.
'England,' he said. He couldn't place his friend's accent. 'What about you?'
'Originally, South Africa. Name's Danny Miller,' -- a name that said nothing except that he had an ancestor who operated the village mill somewhere in England.
'I'm Gilbert Durant,' returned Gil. Then after a while, he said, 'It's a tad noisy in here. Do you have any idea what they're all on about?'
Of course he wouldn't. How could such a nice blond haired Aryan looking bloke know what a bunch of Jews were spouting off about in Hebrew?
'Politics,' answered Danny.
'Politics?'
The man seated just in front of Gil turned around and answered in broken English, 'The Shaas party and the other Orthodox parties, they try to pass laws to make us all Torah observant Jews.'
Despite wearing a goatee, and looking as though he could have co-written the Communist Manifesto, maybe here was a sign of normality.
'But isn't this a Jewish country?' asked Gil.
'Ah, yes, of course, but we human, like everyone else.'
Humans, like everyone else. There's a concept. Some of Gil's colleagues believed Jews could be tolerated if only they stopped acting like Jews and following Jewish practices, and acted -- well -- human!
'So,' Gil ventured, 'Would you say that the problems in this country are rooted in the Jewish establishment trying to force of their agenda on the masses?'
'Yes,' said the radical. 'We only come to this country to live in peace and safety, and to have freedom to be what we are, not to be religious if we don't want to be, just to express our humanness, with art (the ultra Orthodox forbid art) with ideas, alternative approaches (again, the Orthodox don't allow alternatives); but it doesn't stop there. Not just our life style they want to control, but they endanger our safety! Some of the Orthodox sects insist that we claim the lands of the Bible. The West Bank settlers, they only aggravate the problems with our Palestinian neighbours...'
And on and on he went, reviling the Orthodox/Zionist establishment for just about every problem there was in society.
While he did look just a bit too Jewish for Gil's comfort, Gil found himself intently listening to his tirade, sympathising with his hatred for the Jewish establishment that was the source of all society's ills. He could hear things he had said on Hyde Park corner, concepts that Stanovitch had drilled into him, bits of Adolph Hitler. Funny that this was coming from a Jew.
Perhaps the young radical Jew didn't mean to convey quite as much hate and ill will as all that; maybe he was exaggerating just a bit to make a point; or could it be that he felt the confidence of an insider criticising the system to which he belong (and mistook Gil for someone who would understand); what Gil heard sounded so much like his own Nazi doctrine that he found himself listening intently, and even heartily agreeing at some points.
About half way between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, the coach made a stop, and most of the debaters, including the radical with the goatee got off.
Danny had also become involved in the conversation, and continued talking to Gil, oblivious to the young man with a full beard wearing a Russian fir hat who was just now taking his place in the seat vacated by the radical.
'...The State of Israel,' Danny was saying, 'means many things to many people, of course, but to most of us, it's where we can be what we are, eat what we like, marry who we love, do what we want on whatever day of the week we feel like doing it. Living in Israel, we don't need a religion to maintain our identity as Jews...'
'Correction: Religion is our identity,' interrupted a voice with a Brooklyn accent. The man in the fir hat had turned around and was starring daggers at Danny.
Danny sighed, shrugged and gave Gil a knowing look while the newcomer went on:
'We are the chosen people. Ha Shem gave us this land and it's our duty to live in it, and maintain it by keeping the mitzvot. It's you people who have departed from the Torah given to our fathers, who have defiled the land and our race by marrying goyim, by taking on goy practices...' and on and on he went.
Maybe the Orthodox Jew didn't really mean 'race mixers' in the same way Gil often did, nor that certain races were marked for prominence, as his words seemed to be saying, but what Gil heard was ringing a bell.
Polluting minds? Corrupting values? The land was given to the something-or-other race to rule? This was Mien Kumph, but the speaker was anything but Aaryan.
Soon, the bearded man ran out of words to say. The bus was pulling into the terminal.
Perhaps it was the lingering feeling of having been betrayed by Stanovitch, perhaps the fatigue of the journey, and not having slept for several nights on end; he was suddenly noticing similarities between two very different Jewish trains of thought and his own. This wasn't good. Perhaps he should find a quiet hotel room, order a stiff cocktail, sit down and sort it all out in his head until he had everything put in its place and every tub set on its own bottom.
But that was not to be.
There was a crowd waiting at the station. The bearded Orthodox man's words still ringing in his ears, he set his bag down, and gave Danny a hand shake, and told him how good it was to set next to someone who seemed so civilised.
He didn't get the last few words out distinctly, because there was something going on down by his feet. He looked down, and his bag was gone.
'My bag!'
'Oh! Is that it?' Danny pointed at a man disappearing into the crowd.
They both ran after him.
'Palestinian scum,' Gil heard Danny muttering, and then something about building a wall around the West Bank to keep them in their place.
All they could do was watch the stranger dissolve into the crowd.
They found the closest police station and reported the theft of the bag, and signed a list of the important documents he would need to replace. He couldn't remember his passport number, so he gave his full name and other details. Then there were the credit cards, all his money, about 500 Pounds Sterling in all.
Did he have a local address?
He had a name and address of a Rabbi Gilman or something. His own twin brother was staying with him. The address was in his wallet, and that was with the passport in the stolen bag.
The more questions he answered, the more his heart sank. He was penniless, passportless, without a bed to sleep in...
Danny said he had a cousin who might put him up for the night.
A Neo Nazi alone and lost in Jerusalem, and the Jews would give him a bed to sleep in?
They found a phone box. The cousin had company so his spare room wasn't available, but his brother-in-law would most surely be glad to give a forlorn stranger a room for the night. Call back in five minutes.
They called bac
k in five minutes, and were told that Danny's cousin's brother-in-law was on his way to fetch him.
He was already in town, so it took fifteen minutes for the casually dressed dark haired middle aged man to pull up in his old Toyota pickup. It took an hour to get home, though, because he lived in a settlement deep in the West Bank.
The driver introduced himself as Moshe Glasser.
It was dark by the time they arrived, so Gil couldn't make out much of the surroundings, not that he would have anyway.
He was introduced to Moshe's wife and two young daughters. Then, they had a simple meal of fried chicken, a potato hash concoction and a salad made with finely diced cucumbers with an olive oil and vinegar dressing, which Gil thought was tasty. He didn't realise until then how hungry he was.
That, and having a bed to sleep in put him into a frame of mind to pretend he was with normal Aryan East Londoners who could have just as well be talking about immigrating Pakistanis as about the Palestinians living over the next hill.
For dessert, they had invited their neighbours, another family who could have passed for white working class blokes from Birmingham or Sunderland.
So, they talked until late into the night about the plight of their people (was it the white race, or the Jews?) who were the most neglected, least understood and infiltrated with those who would sell their birthright for a mass of pottage. On and on they went about how the politically-correct western establish was so quick to recognise the plight of the supposed underdog (was it the minority groups, or the Palestinians?), how the supposed underdog never had it so good, how they were automatically given favourable press coverage and write-ups by the international media. The point was made how much better they had it than their counterparts in the other countries (was it Pakistan, the East Indies and West Africa; or was it Syria, Lebanon and Jordan?) with the health services, paved roads and good jobs. But were they grateful?
By the time Gil got to bed he was so exhausted he went straight to sleep. He dreamed about flying through space with creatures he knew to be Les Armstrong and the Jewish financier he had met at the club, and four others he didn't know.